


Georges

by niblick_iii



Series: Songs on the Sand [1]
Category: La Cage aux Folles - All Media Types
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-18
Updated: 2009-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 14:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niblick_iii/pseuds/niblick_iii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Georges wasn’t sure when he realised he wasn’t like the other boys in the village...</p><p>Part backstory, part worldbuilding and part character study, this is what happens when an overgrown teddybear of a man takes up residence in my brain and refuses to leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Georges

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a short exercise to reclaim my brain from the characters who had taken up residence in it and turned into 6000 words of mostly fluff with small amounts of angst.

Georges wasn’t sure when he realised he wasn’t like the other boys in the village. It wasn’t that he disliked playing war _exactly_. Just in the mud? In his Sunday best? That was just the ruination of a good suit. What he was sure of, however, was when his life changed, completely and irrevocably forever. He was nine and it was Christmas. It had been a good year for the farm, in spite of the thing with his father, and his mother felt they deserved a treat. The run-down third-rate theatre in the next town was hosting a run-down third-rate dance troupe, performing The Nutcracker for the holiday season. The sequins might have been falling off the dancers’ costumes, and the pirouettes might have been past their best, but Georges was entranced. Right there, sitting on that creaky seat in that faded theatre, watching those creaky dancers dance to a faded tune, Georges knew. Knew that more than anything in the world he wanted to dance. _Needed_ to dance. Needed to feel the music in his veins and the wooden boards of the stage beneath his feet. That night Georges decided. He was going to be a danseur.

* * *

 

Georges was fifteen when he finally put his plan into action. It had taken months of planning, months of sneaking to the library for research, months of secretly saving his pocket money. So, with 30 francs in his pocket and a heart yearning for the stage, Georges set off for Paris, to learn how to dance.

It had taken longer than Georges had expected to get to Paris by hitching lifts, and of the 30 francs he had started with, only 5 remained. But Georges was here, in this vibrant, pulsating city, and he was going to live his dream. Now it was time for phase two of his plan – get accepted by Le Conservatoire de Paris. This stage of the plan wasn’t all that more fully formed than phase one (get to Paris), but if he could find out where the directeur lived, then maybe he could convince him to let him in.

It had taken a week of waiting outside his house for M. Feuilly to leave each morning, of running after him and begging to be allowed to dance, but one morning, M. Feuilly, a kind hearted old man, looked down at this boy, wide-eyed, dishevelled from sleeping on the streets for a week, this boy with no luggage, no place to stay, no family to protect him in this big wide city, nothing but the clothes on his back and a dream, and felt a protective surge of pity. Giving young Georges 20 francs to get breakfast and some clean clothes, he told him he could audition for a scholarship place if he was at the Conservatoire that afternoon.

Georges danced that afternoon as he’d never danced before. His might not have been the most polished performance that the directeur had ever seen, but what he fudged of the steps he more than made up for with raw energy, passion and talent. M. Feuilly was not sure when he had last seen a dancer who burned with the _need_ to perform as much as Georges.

So Georges won the scholarship, which paid for his tuition, books and uniform plus a small stipend which allowed him to rent a room with Mme Mabeuf, a motherly old lady who darned his socks and made sure he ate properly.

Georges had never been happier than he was at the Conservatoire; dancing everyday, every moment banking his blazing need into a controllable fire of passion and joy. But still there was something missing. Something not fully _there_ with his life.

He found it the night he walked into the gaudy, intoxicating lounge bar of _Moulin Rose_. He was sixteen, and had taken to escaping Mme Mabeuf’s of an evening to explore his city. In one moment his breath was taken away by the glamour of the place. Never had he been somewhere so wonderful, so dazzling, so _alive_.

He hung about in the shadows drinking it all in, the lights, the music, the waiters rushing to and fro with drinks and entrees, the performers on the stage. The rushing, buzzing whir of colour and sound and sights and smells threatened to overwhelm him, engulf him, entrap his mind and soul.

Georges started going to the _Moulin Rose_ every night after that, entranced by its slightly seedy glamour. It wasn’t long before he was noticed by the manager, Émile Gillenormand. That first night the man approached him, Georges was certain he was going to be thrown out, and he sat there in a blind panic, trying to marshal any excuse, _anything_ that would allow him to stay at this place that had become as necessary to him as breathing.

But Gillenormand, recognising a kindred spirit, had simply told him that if he was going to sit there every night without buying a drink, he would have to work. So he gave him odd jobs; running errands, calling the half hour and five minute warnings to the dressing rooms, fetching props; the hundreds of little jobs that are vital to the smooth running of a busy club like the _Moulin Rose_.

Georges’ days at the Conservatoire seemed bland and colourless in contrast to his busily exciting nights spent in the _Moulin Rose._ So at seventeen he left La Conservatoire de Paris, his studies incomplete, to work full time at the _Rose_ as their newest dancer.

* * *

 

Nine months later he was in the dressing room, resting between the evening and midnight shows when a dapper, neat little man walked in, dressed in a smart suit, with oiled down hair and a welcoming smile. If the man had only had some fine moustaches then one would have been forgiven for thinking that this was Hercule Poirot stepped from the pages of a novel. This man was Matthieu Dubois, owner, manager and compére of _La Cage Aux Folles_ in Saint Tropez, come to offer Georges a part in their upcoming production of _Jason et les Argonautes._ Up until now, Georges had only been a dancer, needed occasionally when one of the girls felt they needed a partner. This part would see him sing and act as well. Georges was no fool, and knew that without another string to his bow, his career would not last long. After all, a dancer is only as good as his legs, and one wrong turn can put paid to the most promising of careers.

* * *

 

Georges hadn’t thought he could love another place as much as he loved Paris, but moving to Saint Tropez was like coming home. For the first time, at La Cage, he felt truly as if he belonged. Even at the Conservatoire he had felt out of place, laughed at by the other danseurs for his lack of schooling, whilst some of the _Rose_ dancers had sneered at him and called him stuck up because of his classical training.

Sleeping every night to the lulling sound of the Mediterranean, dancing, singing and acting every evening at _La Cage Aux Folles_ and spending his days discovering all that Saint Tropez had to offer a young man barely begun his adulthood, Georges felt that his life couldn’t get any more perfect.

He was wrong. He was wrong and he realised it one dull September morning, about two years after he moved to Saint Tropez. He was lounging in the bar, as usual, having just finished his rehearsal, as usual, watching Dubois audition young hopefuls, as usual. Georges never liked to join in with the jeers, whistles and cat-calls of the Cagelles, but he liked to watch Matthieu, picking up hints and tips for when he ran his own club one day. This was a new dream, one that had crept up on him slowly, born from watching Dubois interacting with the patrons, compéreing the show, and generally managing the business he owned with his wife and Georges had realised that one day he wanted to be doing the same, master of all he surveyed. From then on, he would watch Dubois, notice how he would talk to customers, how he would deal with disgruntled guests and fussy dancers. He was learning how to run a night club from one of the best in the business. So even on his days off, like today, he could generally be found in the vicinity of the place, soaking up knowledge like a sponge.

On this ordinary, usual autumn day, a young man walked nervously into La Cage. Not what you would call slight or petite, certainly not built along the same lines as the Cagelles, nevertheless, he had a feminine, feline grace about the way he moved, a spark of something that caught the eye, arrested the attention as he passed. He certainly arrested Georges’ attention as he delicately picked his way through the litter of chairs and tables to where Dubois sat. He was wearing grey pinstriped trousers, with a pastel blue shirt and matching neck scarf, a soft grey fedora perched at a jaunty angle slightly over one eye. His pinstriped jacket was slung carelessly over one arm, and in the other hand he held a battered old brown suitcase.

“Err, where do I change?” he asked quietly. He had a pleasant, mid-range sort of voice, which trembled ever so slightly, betraying his nervousness.

“Just through that door over there, Monsieur…?” replied Matthieu, pointing towards the dressing rooms, and raising an eyebrow in question.

“…Albin, sir, although it’s… ah Zaza when I’m working” he replied with a slightly nervous laugh.

“Well then Albin, get yourself in there and show us what Zaza can do.”

The young man that Georges now knew was called Albin walked into the dressing room to change.

Twenty minutes later, Zaza emerged on the stage, stunning in a red sequinned gown, long dark hair flowing down her back. She handed some sheet music to the pianist, and launched into a rendition of _Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend_ , her slightly smoky voice almost a match for Marilyn Monroe.

Georges was frozen in place, entranced and enchanted. If you had asked him thirty seconds ago, he would have said that Albin was too tall and too broad-shouldered to make a convincing woman, but here he was, swept away by this astounding performance.

As Zaza finished her song, there was a moment of silence and then everyone; Dubois, Georges, the Cagelles, even the cleaner sweeping behind the bar, everyone burst into enthusiastic applause. Unheard of for the Cagelles not to make one catty remark about an auditionee, let alone show appreciation in such an obvious way.

“I think that speaks for itself. You’re hired.”

After that, the Cagelles began to drift away, some to their dressing room to get ready for their rehearsal, others to home for lunch and a rest before the evening shows. Dubois disappeared off to his office to work on managerial things, and even the cleaning lady moved on to dust the back stairs.

Albin looked a little bewildered at this sudden lack of people when he emerged a short while later, and Georges, trying his best to be casual and nonchalant, but suddenly more nervous than he’d ever been in his life, strolled up to him and said with a smile, “Ah, these are busy people, you can’t expect them to sit around watching you all day.”

Albin gave a shy smile that made Georges’ heart stutter a little.

“Just you wait,” he replied, “one day people will be queuing in the streets to watch me.”

Georges laughed at that, his nervousness dissipating, and, holding out his hand, introduced himself.

“Georges. I’m a dancer here at La Cage.”

“One of the Cagelles?” Albin asked, his mouth quirking in amusement, shaking Georges’ proffered hand.

“Ah, no, what gave me away? This?” Georges replied, pointing at his rather straggling attempt at a moustache. “No, I play some of the male roles round here; I’m hoping to get the lead next season.”

“Ah I see. Well, I guess I shouldn’t keep you…” Albin trailed off, looking at his feet.

“Don’t worry, I have nothing to do for the rest of the day, it’s my day off. You new to Saint Tropez?”

Albin nodded, ducking his head slightly.

“Well you won’t know any of the good places to eat. Come on, I’ll take you to lunch to celebrate your new job. That is… if you want to” he finished, some of his nerves returning.

“No, no,” came the swift reply, “that is to say, yes, lunch sounds nice.”

Albin smiled then, a broad grin that lit up his whole face, and caused Georges’ stomach to practice several acrobatic tricks.

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” said Georges, gesturing towards the door.

As they walked out into the bright, sunny street, blinding after the soft interior of the club, Georges couldn’t help worrying slightly that his life might just, once again, have irrevocably changed.

They wandered to a small restaurant in the middle of town that was one of Georges’ favourites and ordered lunch. They say that time flies when you’re having fun, and it certainly flew for Georges and Albin sitting in that restaurant. Before they knew it, they had been sitting there for nearly two hours, lingering over their meal, each reluctant to put an end to it. It had been two hours of shared jokes and stories, of laughter, of hoping the other man didn’t notice that maybe you were staring for just a little bit too long, of hoping that he _would_ , that he was as interested in you as you were in him.

Eventually, though, as all good things must, the meal came to an end, the result of rather pointed looks from the waiters, who wanted to clean up and prepare for the evening service.

They stood on the path outside the restaurant; laughing slightly over the venomous looks they had been given. It was then that Georges had a sudden flash of inspiration, an idea to prolong their afternoon.

“So I suppose you’ll be wanting the tour then?”

“The tour?”

“Yeah, you said you were new to the area, ergo, you’ll be wanting the tour of the town. A man’s got to know all the places to see and be seen.”

“Quite right. Lead on Macduff.”

Georges was amused by this peculiarly English turn of phrase; one of Albin’s many quirks it seemed.

They strolled slowly through the town, Georges pointing out the best bars, cafés and restaurants, as well as some of the historical landmarks. They spent an hour in the Musée de l'Annonciade, enjoying the gentle quiet of the galleries and each other’s company.

As the sun set, Albin insisted on buying Georges a drink as a thank-you for the tour, so they made their way to a small café that overlooked the beach.

Finishing up their Cognacs, they chose to take a stroll along the shore. As the full moon cast its dreamy light over the lapping waters, bathing the beach in a magical aura of stillness, the soft strains of some romantic melody drifted through the air from a nearby restaurant. The beach was deserted and a slight breeze came off the water, ruffling Georges’ hair. In a moment of bravery that he would later marvel at, he reached over and took Albin’s hand. Albin looked up, startled, but then Georges felt him relax, and they continued to walk along the sand hand in hand, perhaps a half a step closer then they had been before.

* * *

 

Three months passed, Albin had swiftly become _La Cage Aux Folles’_ newest and brightest star, and Georges had indeed got the lead that season for _Les Travaux d'Hercule_.

In fact, he was about to embark on a tour of the show, a slow path through some of the best nightclubs in France, finishing up in Paris with a two-month run at the Lido, the famous cabaret on the Champs Elysees. Packing the last of his clothes into his trunk in the small apartment he and Albin shared, Georges couldn’t help but have mixed feelings about the whole situation. Yes, it was an incredible opportunity, yes, he couldn’t believe he would get to perform at the Lido, and yes, it could send his career spinning down paths that he hadn’t dreamed of. But it meant being away for three months. Being away from home, from Albin. It meant three long months without seeing that face, those eyes, that smile that still threatened to stop his heart every time he saw it. He _had_ to go, of course, there was no way he couldn’t go, as Albin would tell him on those days when his conviction wavered, and the three months ahead seemed an eternity. So here he was, packing, ready to embark on what was to be, he was sure, one of the best and worst times of his life.

Albin stood on the step to see him off, trying not to let Georges see the tears glistening behind his long lashes. Their private goodbyes had been said the night before, in the dark comfort of their bedroom, storing up quiet words and soft caresses for the months ahead. Georges looked back, seeing Albin standing there, a slightly brittle smile on his face, watching him with too-bright eyes. It made it nearly impossible to turn round and carry on walking, but he had to, had to remind himself that three months wasn’t really so very long, and remind himself of all the reasons he should go.

“I’ll… I’ll write to you” he said, his voice cracking slightly.

Albin just nodded in reply, not trusting himself to speak. Then driver of the tour-bus grew bored of waiting, and honked his horn, breaking the spell. Georges turned back to see the Cagelles watching him through the windows, some of them swooning exaggeratedly, others making over-the-top pouty kissy faces, all of them mocking him in some way. He grinned at this, turned back to the apartment one last time to give Albin a final wave and ran up the steps onto the bus before he could change his mind.

* * *

 

It was five weeks into their two-month run at the Lido, and Georges had to admit, when he wasn’t missing Albin, he was enjoying every minute of it. Unfortunately, at times, the missing Albin thing was almost insurmountable. Georges wrote to him every week, of course, and Albin wrote back, but if anything, all that did was highlight the fact that he was so far away, punctuate his longing and throw his loneliness into sharp relief. Georges would have thought that it would have become easier as he passed the half way mark, as the time he had still to spend away was less than the time he had already been away. But it hadn’t worked out like that, with every week that passed, Georges only got more impatient to be reunited with the man he loved. Now, with only three weeks to go, his impatience was reaching a fever pitch, and his desire to be back in Albin’s arms was a palpable ache in his chest. The only time it lessened was when he was on stage. When he could lose himself in his performance, Greek God down to the end of his toes, unstoppable, untouchable, immortal. Which only made the sudden crash of reality as the curtain fell even more jarring and painful.

Which, really, was why, as much as Georges tried to convince himself otherwise, afterwards, That Night happened.

It started after the show one day, when the cast and crew were having a party, celebrating somebody’s birthday. Georges was lurking quietly in a corner, nursing a glass of champagne and missing Albin. Sybil came over with a bottle of champagne and a glass, and that really was the start and end of it all.

Sybil was one of the regular dancers at the Lido, who had stepped in at the last minute at the beginning of the Paris run, when one of the dancers had severely sprained an ankle in rehearsal. Ever since she had joined the cast, she had been after Georges. His subtle hints that she “wasn’t his type” and his not-so-subtle hints that he had a man waiting for him in Saint Tropez were all equally ignored. Sybil was beautiful, and selfish because of it. She was used to getting her own way and to people succumbing to her every whim. She wanted Georges, and nothing was going to get in her way. If that meant manipulating a sad and lonely man to get it, then that’s what was necessary. After all, what Georges and Albin shared wasn’t real love, was it? Not like between a man and a woman. Georges clearly hadn’t met the right woman yet. And Sybil was the woman to show him how wonderful it was. So when she sat in his quiet corner, invading his silence, it was somehow inevitable that they ended up in bed together. It wasn’t the alcohol, no matter what Georges told himself later. They had gone through the entire bottle of champagne together, but that really wasn’t so very much, enough to lower inhibitions, certainly, but not enough to blame any lapse of judgement on. Part of it was curiosity; having defined his sexuality to himself so early, Georges sometimes felt that he should have done the seemingly pre-requisite “experimenting” to prove it. But mostly it was loneliness, gut-wrenching, bone-deep loneliness; it was reaching out for human contact, for the illusion of intimacy, for a way to soothe the acute longing in his heart.

The next day, sneaking out of Sybil’s bed in the early morning light, Georges was sickened and disgusted with himself and oh-so guilty. He never thought he would be the kind of person to make such a terrible drunken mistake, to betray everything that he and Albin had. He took a shower, feeling as though he would never be clean again, that he would never be able to purge his soul. There was nothing for it, he would have to confess his sins, and take any punishment that came his way just as he deserved. Guilt lying like a hot, leaden lump in the pit of his stomach, Georges sat down and wrote to Albin. That morning, and in the years to come, he would not remember the tortured longing that had lead him down that path, would not remember that he was craving human contact, only that he had been drinking, that he had wanted it, and that yes, he had enjoyed it. Any other reasons behind what had happened That Night were lost in the maelstrom of self-recrimination, Georges unable to let himself remember anything other than that he had betrayed his love.

* * *

 

Those last three weeks in Paris had been the longest in Georges’ entire life. Three weeks since he had sent his declaration of guilt, and nothing. No reply, no angry letter, no hysterical phone call, no furious Albin on his doorstep, demanding to know what he was thinking. So that was it, obviously, Georges had managed to screw up the best thing in his life, the very best thing that had ever happened to him. Albin had left him, and frankly, Georges couldn’t really blame him.

So it was with a heavy heart that Georges opened the door to the apartment that had been the venue for so many happy memories, expecting to find it empty, cleaned out, no trace of Albin or the love they’d shared remaining.

Imagine his surprise, then, when instead of the cold, empty tomb of memories he was expecting, the apartment was precisely how he had left it; warm, welcoming, and there, sitting on the settee, the last person Georges had been expecting, and the one person he most wanted to be there. Albin, his Albin, sitting there, an odd mix of delight and anger in his expressive eyes.

Without a thought Georges dropped his suitcase and rushed over to Albin’s side, where he dropped to his knees, begging forgiveness.

“I’m so, so sorry” he said, head bowed, voice cracking, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I was so sure, when I hadn’t heard from you, so sure that you’d left, seeing you here, now, when I was convinced that you’d gone, I… I can’t describe it. Please don’t go, please, _please_ don’t leave me, I’d do anything, _anything_ to have you stay.”

“I’m… I’m not going anywhere, Georges,” Albin replied, his voice trembling as tears threatened to engulf him too. He pulled Georges from his knees to sit next to him, and looked him squarely in the eye. “I was angry with you, furious, so furious I couldn’t think of any way to reply to your letter. But never, not once did I think of leaving. I was sitting here, thinking of all I was going to say to you, and it was quite a speech, I can tell you.”

He chuckled a little at that, and Georges allowed himself a small smile through his tears; if Albin was making jokes, then maybe, just maybe, things were going to work out.

“I had a long list of things I wanted to say, accusations to hurl, but one look at your face as you walked in the door told me I couldn’t hurt you anymore than you already had. I’m not saying I forgive you, it may be a while before I’m able to do that, but I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, and we are going to work this out.”

Albin put one hand on the side of Georges’ face, caressing his cheek, wiping the tears from his eyes, and pulled him in closer for a kiss. One kiss turned into several, and soon they moved into the bedroom to begin healing the ache of separation and the hurt of betrayal.

* * *

 

A year passed, a year that had seen Georges and Albin rebuild the trust that had been broken in Paris. A year that had seen joy, laughter, success, and the healing of old wounds.

It was early evening, and Georges and Albin were enjoying a rare night off together, snuggled on the settee, listening to old Noel Coward records. Their quiet domesticity was shattered by the doorbell ringing. Sighing, Georges got up to open the door. When he opened it, he was surprised to see that there was no-one there. Shrugging, he was about to close the door and return to the sitting room when a rustling noise at his feet made him look down. Surprised didn’t even begin to describe his emotions when he saw what was there. There, sitting on the step was a large wicker basket, filled with blankets, and the softly wriggling form of a small baby beginning to awaken. Stunned, it took a few moments for Georges to notice that there was an envelope perched on top of the blanket, his name written on it in a curling hand. In a daze, he bent down to pick up the envelope, opened it, and began to read the letter contained within.

_Georges,_

_So sorry to do this to you darling, but have just been offered a tour of northern Italy, and can’t let him ruin my career any more than he already has._

_Do be a dear and take care of him. I should only be gone six months or so, and after all he is your son._

_Much love_

_Sybil_

_P.S. His name’s Jean-Michel._

“Who is it, Georges?”

Getting no reply, Albin came out into the hall to see what was taking to long. He saw Georges looking bewilderedly at a letter in his hand, the front door open, and on the front step a basket containing… a _baby_!

“Georges, what are you thinking, leaving him outside like that?! Come on; let’s get you in the warm.” He picked up the basket and carried it into the front room, Georges following, still in a baffled haze, only just remembering to shut the door.

Jean-Michel began to fuss slightly at the movement, and Albin picked him up, cradling him in his arms, rocking him gently in an attempt to settle him.

“Honestly, who could do that, abandon their baby on a strangers doorstep, not even knowing if someone would come to the door?” Albin said, his voice a fierce and indignant whisper, not wanting to wake the baby any more.

“Sybil…” replied Georges quietly, still unable to wrap his head round this sudden turn of events.

“What? Sybil who?”

“Sybil, it’s Sybil. She left a note. It’s... he’s her son. My son, she says.”

“A note? She left a note? She abandons her baby on our doorstep, but that’s ok because she left a note? Why on earth..?” Words failed Albin at that point, and he spluttered quietly, still rocking Jean-Michel.

“I don’t know, she says she’s going to northern Italy, she’ll be back in six months, and he’s my son. And his name’s Jean-Michel.”

“Jean-Michel?” Albin said softly, looking down at the child in his arms, “Well at least she managed to name him right. Six months? Does she really think she can leave her child here for six months, then come waltzing back to claim him when she’s done? Like we’re some sort of nursery. If she thinks I’m letting her have him back after what she’s done, she’s got another think coming. No child should have to put up with a mother like that.”

His voice rose angrily at that, causing Jean-Michel to start to cry in earnest.

“Hey, hey, hey, shhh baby, shh,” Albin cradled him closer, speaking softly, “It’s ok, we won’t let that nasty woman near you any more.”

Looking up, he said to Georges “Is Marie in tonight?”

“Marie?”

“Yes, Marie. Marie Dubois? Yes? Is she in?”

“Err… yes I think so... why..?”

“Because, you daft sod, I don’t know the first thing about looking after babies, and I’m fairly sure neither do you. Marie, on the other hand, has raised three children, and I think we’re going to need her help.”

“We…?”

“Yes, we. Do you really think I’m going to run out of here screaming, just because you manage to have a baby, one night, by accident? The poor thing would never stand a chance if he just had you looking after him.”

Georges conceded the point, touched more than he thought possible at Albin’s assumption that they would tackle this together. As quickly as possible he made his way to La Cage, and the apartment above it that Matthieu Dubois shared with his wife Marie.

Marie was a maternal woman with a big heart, thinking of the employees of La Cage as part of her extended family, but she had always had an special soft spot for Georges, and later Albin, partly because they’d both been so very young when they came to work for them, and partly because it warmed her heart to see two people so obviously made for each other.

Georges’ explanation had been delivered in a breathless jumble, and Marie wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but caught the words “baby” and “doorstep” and Georges’ obvious agitation, so grabbed a coat, scribbled a note to her husband, and followed Georges into the night.

The next two hours passed in a blur. Marie got to Albin and Georges’ apartment to find one crying Jean-Michel, and one increasingly desperate Albin. Taking the baby, she sent the boys to fetch a bottle and some milk, and, whilst they were gone, changed a rather full nappy.

When they returned, they got a swift but useful lesson on feeding, burping and changing a baby, as well as a promise to return early in the morning with some old baby things, and more instruction on caring for a little one.

Left alone, Georges and Albin collapsed on the settee, exhausted by the sudden turn of events. They stayed there for quite some time, slowly trying to adjust and come to terms with the sudden changes that had been wrought in their lives. They had just begun to take in the enormity of what had happened, when Jean-Michel, who had been sleeping peacefully, began to fuss again. Albin jumped up to settle him, putting all his newly-gained knowledge into action. Watching Albin cradling the precious bundle in his arms, Georges felt the vague feelings he had had for some time solidify into the certain knowledge that this, right here, was where he wanted to spend the rest of his life, with this man standing before him, with the love of his life.

Getting up, he moved to stand behind Albin, slipping his arms round his waist and resting his chin on Albin’s shoulder in order to look down at Jean-Michel.

“Look at him, Georges. Your son. He has your nose.” Albin said quietly, almost reverently, not wanting to disturb the baby.

Turning his head, Georges kissed Albin on the cheek and replied, “No, my love, our son,” and more quietly “our family.”

* * *

 

It was a week later, and Georges and Albin were finally beginning to feel more comfortable and less panic stricken with the thought of having to look after a baby. Marie was still helping them, watching Jean-Michel when they had to work, and tonight Georges had asked her to look after him between shows as well, so that he could take Albin out for dinner. The certainties that had assailed him that first night with Jean-Michel had only grown stronger, and tonight Georges wanted to share them with Albin.

They went to the shore-side café that had become a regular haunt of theirs since that first night.

Georges was feeling nearly as nervous as he had the first time he had spoken to Albin, fidgeting restlessly with his cutlery and his glass all evening.

“What is it Georges? I know that face when you have something to say. You might as well tell me now.”

Georges glanced around, and seeing that the promenade was deserted, he leaned forward and took Albin’s hand in his.

“Georges! We’re in public view!” Albin exclaimed.

“This is important,” Georges replied, earnestly. “It’s something that I’ve been feeling for a while now, and well, this week, this week has just confirmed it. I… I love you, more than I’ve ever loved anyone before, more than I ever will and I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life showing you and... uh… I was… err… hoping you felt the same.” The last sentence became little more than a mumble as Georges faltered under Albin’s unwavering gaze, which had been fixed on him since he began speaking.

Albin was silent for half a beat; then his face lit up into a look of the most complete joy and happiness Georges had ever seen on it.

“Georges, yes, I... yes, I can’t think of anything I would rather do,” Albin said, leaning forward and squeezing Georges had, his eyes promising a greater celebration when they both got home.

This was it, Georges thought. This time was really it; his life couldn’t get more perfect.

* * *

 

The world turned and seasons passed. Matthieu Dubois decided to give up the public side of his role and concentrate on managing the business. Georges took over as compére as the job took less of his time than performing did, giving him more time to look after Jean-Michel. Marie helped, watching the boy in the evenings, and insisting they all came over for dinner on Sundays to make sure that, in her own words “they got at least one decent meal inside them.”

When Jean-Michel was 5, Dubois decided to retire completely, passing the reins of his business to Georges and Albin, the three of them moving into the apartment above La Cage.

Albin got the lead for a national tour of _Hello Dolly!_ but at the time Jean-Michel was twelve and just starting a new school, so Albin turned them down and told Georges that he hadn’t got the part, because otherwise Georges would only have tried to convince him to go.

The world turned and seasons passed, and things pretty much stayed the same. Until the day that Jean-Michel came home from a holiday.

“I won’t be here long, Papa. I’m getting married...”

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Albin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/688081) by [niblick_iii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/niblick_iii/pseuds/niblick_iii)




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